


Purple, Gold and Green

by abundantlyqueer



Series: Mardis Gras Universe [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-09-06
Updated: 2005-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "Mardi Gras", set about three years earlier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Change of Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alchemilla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=alchemilla), [aleathiel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aleathiel), [darknight999](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darknight999), [ferretgm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ferretgm), [hanarobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanarobi/gifts), [ourdramaqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ourdramaqueen), [sadasi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sadasi), [slipperieslope](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=slipperieslope), [uniquebutvague](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=uniquebutvague).



> All parts were part of the Katrina hurricane relief fic-a-thon. All recipients made generous donations on behalf of hurricane victims. Thank you, on behalf of all of those you've helped!

Dom's not even trying to get into Satine's; Dom's not that stupid.

He's just wandering, backpack slung on one shoulder, sun-streaked hair and faded tee-shirt and frayed denims all crumpled and sticking to his skin a little in the heavy moist heat of the evening. He grins in charmed disbelief at the ice-cream colored kiosks selling neon colored drinks, the bead-shops festooned in brightly glittering plastic treasure, the open-fronted bars spilling people and noise onto the sidewalk.

Dom crosses streets and turns corners with no destination in mind. He vaguely suspects that he's going in circles, or half-circles at least. He could swear he's already passed this particular configuration of beads and masks and glow-in-the-dark skulls, this rainbow-striped hut selling super-sized cocktails in pink plastic tumblers, this gleaming glass and brass frontage with girls in sequins and feathers sitting on swings in the display windows on each side of the door, like particularly bizarre and beautiful birds. Across the glass, in slanted script, is the name _Satine_.

"Hey, you, man," says one of the two seven-foot tall and elegantly suited black men working the door.

Dom, his attention on the flashily dressed people being ushered through by the other bouncer, doesn't realize he's being addressed.

"You in the red soccer shirt," the bouncer insists.

Dom, his attention caught by that _soccer_ , glances down at his much used and abused Manchester United tee-shirt, and then at the bouncer.

"Me?" Dom scowls.

"Yeah, come on man, come on in," the bouncer says.

"In there? Me?" Dom says, glancing around to make sure there isn't some guy with polished hair and Italian shoes wearing a Real Madrid shirt standing right next to him.

"Yeah, come on, you got a great look man."

Dom smirks doubtfully, but he also shrugs and steps across the threshold.

"Okay. Thanks, man," he grins.

The plunge from the warmth and moisture of the air outside to the cool crisp air-conditioning inside is enough to raise goose-bumps on Dom's arms, and brings the sweat-damp patches of cotton against his spine and stomach into chilly focus. He glances through the arched entryway that leads into the bar and restaurant area, but passes them by and goes up the broad, red-carpeted staircase.

Dom passes huge gilt mirrors and long low couches upholstered in popsicle shades of silk velvet. People – tanned and sleek and shining – stare at Dom as he passes; some look faintly disapproving, some perplexed. Some look interested, even intrigued.

Dom goes along the wide hallway, past another lounge bar, under an ornate plaster arch, and into the dimmer lighting of the nightclub. His eyes take a second to adjust, to resolve glimpses of clouded mirrors and bruised velvets and smoky silk. It's almost as hot in here as it is the street; there's a pearl-sheen of sweat on the bare shoulders of the black girl walking in front of Dom, on the nape of the white boy sitting with his back to Dom. The dark swirls with points of white light that slide over table tops and shimmer in cocktail glasses and explode on a girl's diamond bracelet. The music is loud enough to pulse under Dom's heart and flutter in his lungs.

Dom lets the steady press of people move him from the entrance to the bar. His backpack is a liability in the crowd so he stows it on the floor between the bar and a barstool, leaning aside and smiling briefly when someone moves past him, cell phone in hand. Dom straightens up again, blinking when he finds the barman directly in front of him.

"Margarita pitcher and one glass," the barman says, sliding them across the bar to Dom.

Dom glances over his shoulder, but the guy with the cell phone has disappeared into the crowd.

"Oh, that's not me, that's - "

"Party hard, man," the barman grins, swiping a cloth across the already spotless wood of the bar and moving away to attend to someone else.

Dom looks around again, looks at the cold glass beading with condensation. He looks over his shoulder one more time.

"Thanks," he says, digging into the right hip pocket of his jeans for the two limp and dirty dollar bills he has left, and puts them on the bar.

He gathers up his backpack, the jug and glass, makes his way to a vacant corner table and settles in. The Margarita is burningly cold, thin with the taste of fresh lime, thick with the heat of good tequila. Dom can feel it searing into the hollow of his empty stomach, surging through his blood. After the first glass, there's something sort of profound about the way the little spots of light catch on the chips of melting ice. Dom refills from the jug.

"Dance with me," Elijah says, dropping down to straddle the low stool on the opposite side of Dom's table.

Elijah is wearing a pair of metallic silver leather jeans and a skin tight black tee-shirt. His matte-black hair is spiked up except for a couple of tendrils pulled forwards in front of his ears; there's a smudge of dark blue eyeliner under his lower lashes. His skin is radiantly pale in the half-gloom: smooth and dewy and absolutely flawless.

"Fuck," Dom breathes.

"No, you have to dance with me first," Elijah grins.

Dom is still open-mouthed and round-eyed when Elijah stands up, presses one shoulder back as if to display the pale clean line of forearm and bicep, of throat and jaw, and then turns around. Dom's glance darts to the narrow curves of Elijah's haunches.

Elijah steps aside, walks away.

Dom chokes down a mouthful of Margarita, bangs his glass down on the table, and scrambles after Elijah. The dance floor is a heated press of bodies, salt-sweat undercut with perfumes and alcohol vapors. Dom feels the brush of skin against his bare arms, the nudge of other hips against his. Elijah turns to face him, a soft snarling smile on his lips. Dom's heart slams sideways in his chest, and every drop of blood in his body pounds with a single pulse.

Elijah steps right up close, setting one booted foot between Dom's dirty sneakers, practically straddling Dom's left thigh.

"Come on," Elijah mouths, hooking the fingers of his right hand into one fraying belt loop of Dom's jeans.

Dom takes a shaky open-mouthed breath.

Elijah leans back, letting the slender lines of his stomach and chest and throat pull taut. His eyelids flicker down heavily, eyelashes sooty dark, irises blue-black in the glowing dark.

" _Come on._ "

Dom reaches out with one hand and takes hold of Elijah by the waist. Elijah's smile twists; he leans back further, past the point of balance, letting Dom support him. Dom's gaze crashes down the shallow curves and planes of stretched tee-shirt cotton, to the sliver of milk-white skin showing at Elijah's stomach, to the clearly molded bulge of Elijah's erection in his jeans.

Elijah sways a little, his bodyweight shifting under Dom's hand. Dom's blood pulls in his veins and Dom's body yields.

They move together in slow counter-rhythm to the beat of the music, hips sliding smoothly together. Elijah, grinning, tips his head back, gives a slight hitch to his movement, pushing his crotch against the crest of Dom's thigh muscle. Dom twists his thumb into the soft flesh at the side of Elijah's waist, rucking up the hem of Elijah's tee-shirt. Elijah pushes the tip of his tongue out, smearing shine over his lips.

Dom can feel his breath shaking in his chest, can feel his face and the rims of his ears burning. He presses his thigh upwards between Elijah's legs, and Elijah abruptly tips forwards, his narrow body falling against Dom's. The jolt shakes loose a thick throb in Dom's groin.

"Come on, come on," Elijah says, his mouth a beat away from Dom's.

Dom wrenches his gaze from Elijah's flushed lips, to take one imploring look into Elijah's eyes, and then digs one hand into the back of Elijah's hair and tightens his grip on Elijah's waist with the other.

Elijah's mouth is soft and slippery, small enough for Dom to cover its curves with his own lips. Elijah tastes of burnt sugar; his tongue slides wetly between Dom's teeth.

Dom staggers a little; they cling to each other, eyes squeezed shut and mouths pressed together. The other dancers jostle them slightly, and every touch seems to ring through Dom's body. Elijah's tongue flickers wetly in Dom's mouth; Dom shifts the hand he has on Elijah's waist, pushing tee-shirt cotton out of the way. Elijah's skin is smooth as silk, damp, hotter than hell.

"Come on," Elijah says breathlessly, wrenching his mouth from under Dom's.

"I thought you wanted to dance," Dom says, though he's already yielding to Elijah's tug on his wrist, tipping his weight towards Elijah.

"We did dance," Elijah says, stepping back and pulling Dom with him. "Come on. _Come on._ "

They shove their way between dancers, ignoring annoyed looks as they stumble over people's feet, clutching at each other to right themselves. They plunge out of the crowd on the dance-floor into the freer space between the tables. Elijah grabs at Dom's hand, leading him a serpentine path, out under another arch, down a hallway, through a push-door into the sudden gleam of the men's room.

Dom flickers a glance at the artfully fly-spotted mirrors and gleaming parquet floor and chandelier lighting. Then Elijah's on him, winding his arms around Dom's neck and latching onto Dom's mouth.

Dom wraps both arms around Elijah's waist and lifts him, dragging the hard bulge of Elijah's crotch up against his own aching erection. The pleasure cuts through Dom's body, a sharp red blade that leaves a trail of tingling heat behind.

Dom turns, a little off-balance, and deposits Elijah on the rim of the black marble sink. Elijah kicks out, trapping Dom between his thighs, hooking his ankles together at the curve of Dom's behind.

"Jesus fuck," Dom says feverishly, tilting his face up now to Elijah's.

"Yeah, yeah, come on," Elijah grins.

Their mouths clash, messy and hard and hot. They pull at each other's tee-shirts, each other's jeans. The zipper on Dom's denims gives easily; the worn denim crumples around his hips with no further encouragement.

Elijah's jeans are tight, the zipper uncooperative. Dom can't do more than press his fingers against the clinging curve of leather and hard flesh.

Elijah arches, slithering off the sink's edge and down the front of Dom's body, crushing a low groan of pleasure from between Dom's gritted teeth.

"Come on," Elijah says, tugging Dom with him.

They reel, bumping the upright of one cubicle's door before sort of twisting through the doorway of another. Dom grabs for Elijah, Elijah grabs for the door. They both stagger; the door bangs shut and Dom grunts sharply as his spine pins it in place.

"Yeah, yeah," Elijah grins, his little hands pushing at Dom's jeans, sliding the denim down off naked hips.

Dom manages to hold his line of sight steady for one second, staring at the silk-fine skin of Elijah's left cheek.

"Jesus," Dom says shakily. "Are you – you're of age, right?"

Elijah glances up, lips tucked together around a smirk, or a secret. He drops to his knees. Dom's head bangs back against the door, his eyes rolling up under flickering eyelids. Elijah tilts back onto his heels, strips his tee-shirt off over his head and drops it on the glossy stone floor next to his shining silver knee. Dom's eyes widen again; Elijah's skin is milk white, flawless as fresh paper.

"Jesus," Dom breathes.

Elijah looks up, eyes brilliant and cheeks flushed. He puts his tongue out, curling the rose red tip teasingly.

" _Jesus_ ," Dom says again.

"This is gonna be good," Elijah says, pressing his thumbs into the hollows of Dom's groin.

"Oh … shite."

"Come on," Elijah coaxes, his fingers curving over Dom's hipbones.

Dom shakily sighs out his breath, lets his spine flex. Elijah tips his chin, takes Dom's cock into his mouth. Dom moans, his eyes fluttering almost completely closed. Elijah hums; the corners of his mouth press against Dom's cock.

Dom lets his head drop forward again, and his eyes fall open. One hand drifts upwards from his side; his fingertips brush over the silky soft strands of Elijah's hair.

"You're – you're fuckin' beautiful," Dom whispers.

Elijah's eyelashes flick upwards; his eyes are electric blue. He looks down again.

Dom feels the short rhythmic pull of Elijah's mouth on his cock, bright flashes of pleasure that tug at the blood in his veins, the seed in his balls. He squirms, hissing his breath out through clenched teeth. Elijah relents, swirling silky spit around the head of Dom's cock inside his mouth. Dom sighs, his body easing into the softer sensation. Elijah pulls back, holding Dom's shaft in one fist and flicking the tip of his tongue around the slit. Dom flinches, laughs anxiously.

Elijah grins, and licks his lips ostentatiously.

"Nice," he says. "Your cock tastes nice."

"Aw, Jesus," Dom says, wriggling against the door even before Elijah swallows him again.

Dom arches, his hips coming away from the surface of the door. Elijah scoops one small hand under Dom's balls, squeezing and stroking as a counterpoint to the tug of his mouth on Dom's cock.

"Jesus," Dom says again. "Jesus."

His fingertips skitter on Elijah's scalp as he fights the urge to grip a fistful of hair.

"Jesus, I'm not gonna last," Dom husks as he realizes that the heat coursing up the backs of his thighs and between his legs is pulling into coherence.

Elijah pulls back again, his tongue quick and cunning on the slit of Dom's cock. Dom makes a short sharp sound, half-curse, half-cry.

"Fu - _Ah_."

Dom feels a quiver in his balls, a sudden spasm that pierces his guts and then shivers strongly through his cock. Elijah catches Dom in his mouth again, flashing him another upward glance. Dom yells, and his seed pumps out of him so strongly it almost hurts.

Elijah pushes in, his lips ringed around the root of Dom's cock, the tip of his nose pressing into Dom's stomach. There's a pearl-white bead of semen at one corner of his mouth.

He pulls back slowly, Dom's cock sliding slippery-wet from his mouth.

He swallows, licks his lips, and wipes the side of his hand across his mouth. He takes a couple of flat-tongued swipes at the head of Dom's cock, cleaning up some the gloss of semen still caught in the fold of Dom's foreskin.

Dom shudders, the sensation too much for his already blasted nerves.

"Jesus. You're fucking beautiful," Dom gasps. "Fucking beautiful."

He takes Elijah by the arms, pulls him up onto his feet. Elijah's mouth is dark red, fever hot, softer than silk. He tastes salty, rank … so fucking sexy that Dom's stomach twists.

"Let me," Dom says breathlessly against the spit-wet side of Elijah's cheek. "Let me suck you off, too."

Elijah laughs, tiny low ripple of sound, with his face turned against Dom's throat. Dom gets hold of the waist of Elijah's jeans, pulling and tugging and getting nowhere. Elijah takes pity on him, pushes his hands out of the way, undoes the button and zipper himself.

"Move," Elijah says, but they're already twisting, Dom rolling his shoulders off the surface of the door, shuffling his feet.

Elijah falls back into Dom's vacated place, his spine arched as he peels his silver leather jeans down off snow-white skin. His pubic hair is a shock of red-black wiry curls against the paleness of his groin. His cock is thick, bigger than Dom expected on such a slight frame. Dom drops to his knees so hard he winces in pain.

"Yeah, yeah come on, fuck, come on," Elijah mutters, twisting the fingers of one hand in Dom's hair and gripping himself with the other. "Come on, baby."

Elijah holds his cock out, holds it level so that Dom can swirl his tongue slowly and luxuriously around the head, licking up the faint salt of sweat.

"Ah - fuck _yeah_ ," Elijah grimaces.

Dom drags the edges of his teeth over the rose-red silk-taut skin. Elijah's breathing shatters into something very close to sobbing.

"Come on please come on, _please_."

Dom's eyes flutter closed, and he tips forwards, letting Elijah's cock slide right down into his throat. Elijah gasps, exhales hard.

"Yeah, come on, I wanna _come_ ," Elijah says.

Dom's brows gather together. He grips Elijah by the hips, pushing and pulling, rocking Elijah in and out of his mouth, doubling and tripling the pace.

Dom's good at this. He can take a guy apart so fast - so fiercely - that it leaves both of them spinning. Elijah's gasping, making frantic little noises, hitching his hips up and down against the door.

"Yeah, please, come on," he pants.

Dom glances up from under his eyelashes. Elijah's head is thrown back, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, and lips parted. Dom feels something heavy spasm low in his stomach, something rawer and more painful than lust.

"Oh yeah, come on," Elijah moans, fingers clawing at the smooth surface of the door. "I want it. I need it."

Something flickers in Dom's chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, his awareness closing down to the heated push and slide of Elijah's cock in his mouth, the rasp and ripple of Elijah's breathing, the tug of Elijah's fingers in his hair.

"Yeah come on come - on - come, _come_ ," Elijah says, his body bowing forwards, straining, shivering …

… shuddering. Dom swallows, once, twice, semen sliding sour over his tongue and down his throat.

For a moment they stay just as they are, Dom on his knees and Elijah leaning over him. Dom sucks at Elijah's cock, cleaning him up as best he can, swallowing down as much of that musk-sour taste as he can get. When Dom finally releases him, Elijah slides slowly down the cubicle door and thuds gently onto the floor.

"Oh," Elijah says, eyebrows lifted and eyes blasted wide.

Dom smirks, and leans forwards to take Elijah in his arms.

"Oh, oh, _oh_ ," Elijah sighs, leaning into Dom's embrace, resting his head on Dom's shoulder.

Dom's heart staggers into a more sustainable rhythm and his lungs begin to work more easily.

"I'm Dom," he says, when he's got enough to breath to speak.

"Elijah," Elijah says against Dom's shoulder.

"Pleased to meet you, Elijah," Dom grins.

Elijah lifts his head, pulls back enough for Dom to see his flushed face.

"Sorry about the bathroom thing," Elijah says. "I couldn't wait, though."

"Don't worry about it," Dom says, glancing around the cubicle. "This is much nicer than the last place I lived. Bigger, too, I think."

Elijah exhales a sound of amusement. He untangles himself from Dom, leaning back against the door. Dom gathers his own feet in.

"I live, like, four blocks from here," Elijah says.

Dom grins. Elijah gets his feet under himself and slides back up the door.

"Come on," he says, offering Dom his hand.

Dom scrambles onto his feet, and they concentrate for a minute on tucking themselves back into their jeans. Dom picks up Elijah's tee shirt and hands it to him. Elijah uses it to wipe the sheen of sweat out of the white hollow of his breastbone before he pulls it back on.

Inevitably, standing so closely in the confined space, they fall back into each other's gravity again, kissing slowly at first and then with growing intent. The bang of the outer door opening finally parts them.

"Come on," Elijah says again.

They go back via Dom's corner table so he can retrieve his backpack, and then walk side-by-side down the stairs and out into the clinging heat of the night. Elijah slips one arm around Dom's waist, tucking his thumb into the far corner of Dom's hip pocket. Dom, his backpack dangling from one hand, drapes the other arm around Elijah's slender shoulders.

They walk a couple of blocks, turn a corner, walk another block. The street they're on now is quite narrow and - except for the lit signs of a couple of small restaurants - fairly sedate looking. The cross street, however, is a river of lights and music and crowds.

"Here," Elijah says, before they reach the corner.

Dom glances up, seeing a rusted iron barred gate set in the blank street façade of a large apartment house. Elijah pushes the gate open; it squeals.

"Come in," Elijah says, backing away from Dom, eyes shining in the gloom.

Dom reaches out for him, but Elijah twists away again. Dom follows him, through darkened passageways, up stairways, under arches. The night air breathes all around him, damp, rich with the smell of plant decay. The sound of the street is muffled, and then lost; some insect trills liquidly somewhere close at hand.

They emerge on a narrow railed walkway, open to the air. Above the slope of the roof, the sky is stained gold by the streetlights. Below, Elijah is a dim shadow in the dark.

"Come in," he says again, rattling a lock, and then there's a dimly dazzling spill of light as he flicks a switch.

Dom crosses the threshold. The low light inside gleams on smooth wood and peeling gilt and speckled mirror.

"Jesus," Dom says, letting his backpack slide to the floor.

Elijah pushes the door closed, crosses the room, and opens the high-paneled doors that divide the apartment in two. There's a light already on beside the bed, brightness pooling on the red and gold covers.

"This is fucking fantastic," Dom grins. "This must cost you a fucking fortune."

"The landlord cut me a deal," Elijah says mildly, pulling the bed covers down and throwing brocade-covered pillows on the floor.

"Yeah? Is he is a friend?" Dom asks, coming nearer.

"He likes me," Elijah says. "People … like me."

He pulls his tee shirt off over his head again, and drops it where he stands. He starts pulling his jeans open.

"Yeah," Dom says. "Yeah. I could see … how they would."

"Come on," Elijah says, pushing the sides of his fly apart to expose a slice of white stomach and black hair. "Come on, Dom."

Dom takes a step forward, pulling his own tee shirt off, dragging his jeans open and down, kicking his sneakers off. Elijah heels his boots off, and peels his jeans down his thighs, down his calves, and off.

Dom steps out of his own clothes and moves closer to Elijah.

"Jesus," Dom breathes, as Elijah tips his head up in order to look Dom in the face.

Dom lifts one hand, his fingertips just grazing the curve of Elijah's cheek.

"So beautiful," Dom says. "So - _fucking_ beautiful."

Elijah inhales, hard enough to flare the delicate edge of his nostrils. Dom presses his thumb to the corner of Elijah's mouth, bends his head, and presses his lips to Elijah's.

Elijah winds an arm around Dom's neck, pulling him in even closer. Dom's hands skim over Elijah's body - over the small curves of his shoulders, the sleek narrow muscles of his arms, the little blades of his hipbones.

Elijah tilts his chin, brushing his lips against Dom's, flicking the tip of his tongue into Dom's mouth. Dom makes soft breath sounds, circles his fingertips on Elijah's skin.

"Come on," Elijah murmurs.

He slides out of Dom's arms, and crawls onto the bed. Against the pure white of the sheets, his skin has a warmer ivory tone. He stretches out, one hand lying on his own hip.

Dom comes to him, one knee on the edge of the high mattress, his breath almost still in his lungs. He's distantly aware of the steady beat of his blood between his legs, the renewed ache of want.

"Come on," Elijah says, spreading his legs, his skin whispering against the sheets. "Come on."

Dom shifts, taking his weight on his hands and knees, bending above Elijah. Dom stares down, studying the white-starred centers of Elijah's eyes.

"Come on," Elijah breathes, lifting one knee and grazing the soft flesh inside against Dom's right hip.

"Elijah," Dom says, his eyes flickering closed as he eases his body weight down, and they press together, naked skin to naked skin.

Dom sighs out his breath, resting for a second against Elijah's body.

Elijah hums, a soft ripple of sound that Dom's feels under his chest as much as he hears it. Elijah squirms a little, just pushing the warmth of his body and the gentle angles of his bones against Dom. Dom pushes back, his hips on Elijah's.

Heat builds between them, second by second. Sweat springs on the skin of Dom's belly and between his thighs. They push together again, and there's a sweet slip of skin on skin, a jagged shock of sensation around the head of Dom's cock. Dom hisses out his breath.

"In - in the drawer," Elijah murmurs, throwing one hand out to the side, indicating the fancy little wooden table serving as a nightstand at the side of the bed.

Dom twists, snaking his shoulders and torso to the side. He pulls the drawer open. It's empty, except for a couple of lengths of silky cord and a squat glass jar with a filigree brass mounted lid.

"This?" Dom says, lifting the jar out.

The contents sway heavily, deep amber and speckled with a few tiny flecks of something dark and organic looking. Elijah nods.

"Give - give it," he says.

Dom hands him the jar, and lets his own body slip sideways off Elijah's. Elijah struggles up onto one elbow, and unscrews the lid of the jar. Dom blinks, assailed by the rich wood and earth smell of the oil.

Elijah dips his fingers and anoints himself, oil shining golden around the ridge where the head of his cock meets the shaft, over the taut rose-pink skin of his glans, over the parchment-pale skin of his balls under a mist of crisp black curls of hair. He flushes, his lips twitching into a smile.

"Oh … yeah," he says, flexing his thighs and bending his knees outwards.

"You like that?" Dom murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips against Elijah's left shoulder.

"Yeah, it's - look," Elijah says softly.

He dips his fingers again, and reaches down, taking hold of Dom's erection. Dom inhales sharply and catches the side of his lower lip in his teeth. Elijah's hand slides slickly, oil between skin and skin whispering wetly.

Dom's eyes fly wide, and his body tenses.

"Umn - shite, oh - shite," he gasps.

His toes curl against the white sheets, his fingers tighten down on Elijah's flesh.

"It's - oh."

"It's okay," Elijah breathes, his palm sliding down over Dom's balls, between Dom's thighs. "It doesn't get any stronger than that. Do you like it?"

Dom breathes carefully though the firefly prickle of heat in his groin.

"Yeah, yeah it's - Jesus. I need - I - need - "

He breaks off breathlessly, shifting over Elijah again, bringing his weight down to pin their cocks between their stomachs. Elijah makes a rough sound in his throat, and his eyes flicker.  
Dom digs his toes into the bed for traction and pushes himself up along Elijah's skin. Friction is a raw-edged counterpoint to the heat humming on Dom's skin. Dom grinds his hips down, rolling the pressure between them from one hipbone to the other. Elijah gasps, surges, clutches at Dom's shoulders.

For a moment they're each struggling for their own rhythm, each trying to establish their own pace of push and press and ease. But then they get it right, find how to move against each other. Elijah arches upwards, and Dom smears himself against the offered pressure. The head of Dom's cock is trapped in the curve of Elijah's waist, pressed and pushed and rubbed against oily skin with each surge of Dom's hips.

Elijah writhes, his hands faltering on Dom's shoulders and back and hips. Elijah lifts his head, pushing his face into the heat below Dom's jaw.

"Oh. Yeah," Elijah says breathlessly.

Each push together drives the breath out of their lungs, the two of them making soft hoarse sounds of delight and determination.

"Fuck," Dom gasps, burying the word in the musk-damp smell of Elijah's hairline.

The bed creaks a little, a whispered counterpoint to the wet sound of flesh on flesh, the rustle of the sheets, the steadily building pace of their sighs. Elijah hooks one bare heel behind Dom's thighs, digs his fingers into Dom's hair. Dom drives his right elbow down into the mattress, trying for just a little more traction, a little more friction –

a little more -

Dom's breath slams to a standstill in his chest, his heart hammers in his throat. Every inch of his skin is on fire, and the prickling heat in his groin is maddening. Elijah - Elijah's white skin and small body and spectacular eyes - is making him completely crazy.

And then everything shatters open, a gorgeous shaking spasm that wipes Dom out, wipes out the heat and need and every thought in his head. He's there, and it lasts long enough for him to know that he's there, to savor the way it rocks through his body and empties him out, leaves him stunned and shaky and little shocked.

Elijah's laughing, breathless and wild and still intent on his own desire. His hips kick had under Dom, his cock sliding extravagantly in the slick of Dom's semen.

"Fuck," Dom gasps. "Fuck."

He puts his mouth over Elijah's, sucking air out of Elijah's lungs. Elijah's tongue stabs into his mouth, a crude reiteration of what the rest of his body is doing under Dom. Dom pushes back, giving Elijah as much pressure as he can.

Their mouths slide; Elijah's kiss turns savage, teeth catching at the swollen flesh of Dom's lips. Dom hisses in pain but doesn't pull back. Abruptly Elijah's body goes rigid, and his head jerks back into the pillow. He keens, a tight high sound that could be agony, if it weren't for the steady pulse of his cock against Dom's belly.

Elijah yields, slowly, letting his hands fall away from Dom's shoulders, his thighs fall open on either side of Dom's hips. Dom brushes at the sheen of sweat on Elijah's forehead.

"Okay?" Dom whispers.

Elijah, eyes closed, smiles but doesn't say anything.

Dom stares down at him.

After a while, Elijah's brows crease and his shifts his hip under Dom, making a small sound of complaint. Dom eases up, their skins peeling apart with a shockingly organic squelch. He rolls to one side, leaving Elijah sprawled wet and naked and flushed.

"The bathroom's right through there," Elijah says without opening his eyes, wafting one little hand towards the alcove behind the bed.

Dom climbs off the bed, feeling sweat and semen unstuck in the folds of his skin. The bathroom is tiny - there's hardly room to stand between the shower stall and washbasin and toilet - but it's clean and bright and stocked with a hotel-worthy supply of thick white towels. Dom cleans himself off and rubs some cold water through his hair. He wrings out the corner of a clean towel and brings it back to bed.

Elijah is sitting propped up among the pillows, smoking.

"Oh, thanks man," he grins, taking the towel from Dom and wiping himself clean.

Dom stands beside the bed, watching him.

"You smoke?" Elijah says, offering the pack.

"No," Dom says.

Elijah, flipping the wet part of the towel over and drying himself off with the rest, shrugs.

"Okay. Well. Thanks, that was great. Maybe I'll see you around Satine's again, some time," Elijah smiles.

Dom looks down, at his battered jeans lying on the floor.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, maybe."

He picks his jeans up and pulls them on, grateful for how loose and soft they are, requiring no pulling or wriggling to get them on. He drags on his shirt and stamps into his sneakers as fast as he can. He rubs both hands through his hair, and glances back at Elijah.

Elijah's watching him. When he sees that Dom's looking at him, Elijah smiles slightly.

"Well. Thanks," Dom says, and his voice sounds too rough in his own ears. "See you around."

"Yeah, for sure," Elijah says. "Just turn the lock on your way out, would you?"

"Of course."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Dom strides through to the other room and grabs up his backpack. He pulls the door open, thumbs the latch of the lock, and steps out into the night again. The heat and humidity push into his nostrils, into every pore of his skin.

Dom pulls the door behind him, very gently, and the sound of the lock snapping shut is very loud in his otherwise humming ears. He walks back through the building, down the stairs, out through the rusted gate. It has no working latch, but Dom pulls it carefully closed after him anyway.

For a moment he just stands on the sidewalk, feeling the fading ghosts of Elijah's touch and Elijah's kisses on his skin. Then he swings his backpack onto his shoulders and looks up and down the deserted street, wondering where the hell he's going now.

Something rustles against his left sneaker. He looks down at the piece of paper, frowns, picks it up.

It's a crumpled but clean fifty dollar bank bill.


	2. The Devil's Work

It's mid afternoon when Dom steps from the glaring sunshine of the street into the gloom of Lafitte's bar. The slouched stone walls and blackened rafters glow golden in the stray shaft of light from the open doorway, but the corners are in deep shadow. The tables and chairs in the front half of the bar are a haphazard collection – worn wood and chipped Formica and scratched plastic – mixed together with egalitarian indifference.

Dom eases his backpack on his shoulder and tucks his fingers into the right hip pocket of his jeans, feeling the edges of the few bank bills he has left. He's showered and shaved, wearing his last clean tee shirt, and feeling steadier than he has for several days after sleeping in a hostel bed and eating a four dollar breakfast that gave great value in grease and starch.

"Hey, we're doing a promotion on Corona, you want one?" the barman says, holding up an already open bottle. "It's free."

"Okay," Dom laughs. "Yeah, great, thanks."

He takes the ice-cold bottle, and walks around the bar to check out the back room. It's coal-mine dark, and cool, and somehow quiet. Dom throws his backpack into the corner of one bench and sits down.

The Corona's okay – it tastes a little thin, and made thinner by how cold it is. With the wedge of lime stuck in the neck, the overall effect is pretty much alcoholic fruit fizz, but it's not terrible. Dom eases back on the bench, resting the back of his head against the cool bare brick behind him, and closes his eyes for a second.

 

"Wake up. The game's afoot," Viggo says softly.

Dom's eyes snap open and he sits upright so abruptly that he knocks the table in front of him with his knee. His beer bottle rocks dangerously but doesn't fall over.

"Sorry," Viggo says, leaning back and lifting his top lip enough to expose his canines. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no problem, man," Dom says.

"Enjoying New Orleans?" Viggo asks mildly.

"Yeah. Yeah. It's great."

The barman wanders round the corner, and glances at them both.

"You guys need anything?"

"Bourbon, no ice," Viggo says. "Can I get you - ?"

"No, no thanks, I'm fine," Dom says.

Viggo smiles narrowly.

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up," he says.

Dom flushes out to the tips of his ears, but he lifts his chin stubbornly.

"I know I couldn't compete with your last – experience," Viggo says.

Dom's defiance turns to disbelief.

"What are you – how do you -?"

"I have a sense about these things," Viggo says.

The barman reappears with Viggo's drink. Dom stares at Viggo, while Viggo takes his time finding the money to pay, picking over his change, and giving a tip that makes the barman purse his lips sourly.

Viggo takes a sip of his drink, hissing appreciatively as the spirit burns into his stomach.

"What do you want from me?" Dom asks evenly.

Viggo shakes his head.

"Let's talk about what you want, first," he says.

"I want to know what you want."

Viggo exhales a slight smile.

"Don't try to be tricksy. It won't work."

Dom presses his lips together, and juts his jaw crookedly. Viggo sets his glass down and leans forward across the table, folding his arms.

"All right. Let me tell you, then," he says.

Dom tilts back in his seat, reopening the space between them.

"There was a boy, last night," Viggo says, his voice low and hoarse.

Dom's eyes flicker.

"The most beautiful fucking boy you've ever seen," Viggo goes, ignoring the way Dom's eyes snap wide. "You've never wanted a boy – wanted _anyone_ \- the way you wanted him. You thought if you didn't have him, you'd fucking die of it. Didn't you?"

Dom's lips part dryly, but he doesn't say anything.

Viggo picks his glass up again, and takes another slow sip.

"Who are you?" Dom asks softly.

"Viggo Mortensen. I'm an artist and a ... student of the culture of New Orleans."

"How do you – how do you know, about – Elijah?"

"I told you. I have a sense about these things."

"Then – you tell _me_ what it is I want," Dom says.

"That's easy," Viggo smirks. "You want – what did you say his name was? Elijah? You want to have Elijah again."

"I don't think he's interested in a repeat performance," Dom says, his expression tightening.

Viggo shrugs.

"Have you eaten?" he asks abruptly.

"What?"

"Have you eaten? Answer the question, it's not difficult."

"Yeah, I had breakfast."

"It's after lunchtime. Come on, I'll buy you something."

"What?"

"For fuck's sake, Dom. Don't fucking argue about every fucking little thing, okay? You need something to eat, you need somewhere to stay. I'm willing to help you out."

They stare at each other for a long beat.

"What about Elijah?" Dom says.

"What about him?"

"You – you're right. I did – I do – I want – I need to see him again."

Viggo nods.

"I think that can be arranged," he says. "It's probably not that difficult."

Dom frowns.

"How do -?"

"I have a sense about it, remember?" Viggo says.

Cut

"Welcome to my humble abode," Viggo says, kicking the door closed behind him and leading the way up the narrow stairs into his apartment under the eaves.

"Jesus," Dom says, looking around.

"No," Viggo says, shoving a clutter of beads and snipped tin cans and bits of tangled horse hair aside to make room on the corner of the table for the two Styrofoam cartons of food he's carrying.

Dom brushes aside a hanging garland of dried out garlic bulbs and broken birds' nests. He lets his backpack slide to the floor, and hunkers down to examine the slabs of cracked and peeling wood propped against the wall. Each one is encrusted with color and texture – tufts of horsehair and frayed string and torn cloth, stuck into thick smears of red and black and dirty yellow paint; bits of broken jewelry and smashed mirror and rusting tin, embedded in a paste of tinsel and glitter and ground glass.

"These are – they're amazing," Dom says, his fingers hovering over the darkly gleaming surfaces.

"You can touch," Viggo says very quietly. "They won't hurt you."

Dom glances at him, then back at the paintings. He shakes his head, and stands up, jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

"You make all of this?" he asks, turning his attention to the doll-sized figures on the table.

"I don't make any of it," Viggo says, moving to the opposite side of the table. "I just … _arrange_ what others make."

Dom considers the nearest figurine – a plaster Madonna, repainted in garish colors and collaged all over with bits of feather and unraveled wool. The Madonna's lips are blood red; her eyes are electric blue.

The room is dim and warm. The air is dusty, and thick with a scent like cold coffee and rotting roses. Dom feels strangely weary. He blinks, trying to shed the weight from his eyelids.

"Now … the question is, what are you?" Viggo says, much closer than Dom expects.

Dom lifts his head, lifts his eyes. Viggo is standing next to him, looking down at him with the Madonna's eyes.

"You have something," Viggo says, one big thin hand hovering near Dom's right shoulder. "Some _thing_ , that the city likes. I can see it, glowing under your skin. What is it, Dom? What's your magic?"

Dom blinks again, his brows furrowing slightly.

"You won't tell me?" Viggo says.

His eyes turn more than vivid; his pupils are pin-points even in the golden gloom.

Dom parts his lips, fills his lungs. Viggo's smell is acrid, sour, like strong dope.

"You don't _know_ ," Viggo breathes. "You don't what it is."

He reaches out, taking hold of Dom's right wrist. Dom's eyes open a little wider.

"You feel that?" Viggo asks. "I do. Whatever you've got, it's strong. Getting stronger, I'd say."

He leans in, forcing Dom to tilt his face up a little further to keep the connection of their eyes.

"Give me a taste," Viggo says. "Just a little taste, to see what it is … "

He bends a little, bringing the narrow line of his mouth against Dom's parted lips. Viggo inhales hard, and Dom's eyes flicker closed. Viggo holds Dom's scent in his lungs, letting the hit surge into his blood. Viggo frowns, and tips his head to one side a little.

"All or nothing," he husks. "All or nothing … all of _what_ , though?"

Dom's eyes open again, dark gray shot with silver.

"Dom," Viggo says gently. "Dom. I want you to do something for me. I want you to fuck me. Will you do that?"

Dom eyelids flicker. He makes a small, shapeless sound. Viggo lets go of him, and starts to unbutton his own shirt. Dom sighs, the soft deep breath of a dreamer.

Viggo shrugs the crumpled cotton of his shirt of the broad bones of his shoulders. Viggo's skin is amber dark, with a smooth silky pelt of black hair on his breastbone and belly. Viggo moves in close to Dom again, bending his head and nudging his chin against the side of Dom's face to coax his chin upwards again.

"Dom," Viggo breathes.

Viggo bites down carefully into Dom's mouth, closing his eyes to better concentrate on every particle of the young man's taste.

 _Thin Mexican beer, and the tang of a lime that still remembers the tree. Soft words, smiles, laughter. Dom has a talent for being happy._

 _Kisses. Desire._

 _The dark rum sweetness of Elijah's skin._

Viggo smiles against Dom's lips.

Dom lifts one hand, taking hold of the rip-cord biceps of Viggo's right arm. Viggo pulls back, undoing the buttons of his jeans.

"Come on," he says, stepping out of his battered and dusty sandals.

Dom frowns, but steps nearer.

Viggo backs away again. He bends and skims his jeans off. He's naked underneath, thin and sinewy and sharp. There are faded splotches of ochre and red on his hips, and dull serpentine lines of black on his thighs. He pulls aside the faded flowered curtain hanging in the doorway to the other room. Dom moves closer again.

Viggo turns away. He goes through the doorway, into another treasure chamber of glass and paint and mirrors and cloth. The sun slants through the small grimy window, turning the dust in the air to specks of gold.

There's a mattress on the floor, covered with a couple of creased sheets and a single pillow. Viggo kneels down on the edge of the mattress, his back to Dom.

Dom hesitates for a moment on the threshold of the room, and then enters. The cotton curtain falls back into place with a warm whisper. Dom takes the three steps that bring him to Viggo.

Viggo bends his head slightly, the dark tangle of his hair brushing the nape of his neck. His shoulders and shoulder blades and spine press pale inside his tanned skin. Dom reaches out, puts his thumb at the bony place at the base of Viggo's neck.

" _Yes_ ," Viggo hisses.

Dom shivers, despite the thick warmth of the room. He sinks to his knees, straddling Viggo's calves. Viggo is tall; Dom's lips are level with the triangle of lean muscle between Viggo's shoulder blades.

Dom leans in, and touches his lips to Viggo's skin.

 _Viggo's eyes flash open. He's walking on the boundary between day and night, between light and dark. The queen of the sea laughs and snarls. She reaches out to caress him, and her claws open his skin._

Viggo tastes of salt and sour, his skin clinging to Dom's tongue. Dom's hands move slowly down Viggo's sides, over ribs and hipbones, into the hollows of his haunches. Viggo goes down on his hands and knees; his muscles move smoothly under Dom's hands.

Dom folds with him, belly pressed to the curve of Viggo's spine, groin tucked against Viggo's behind. Viggo eases down onto his elbows, his hair sliding and falling forwards around his face.

Dom slides away, sitting back on his heels. He thumbs down the peaks of Viggo's spine, to the dark depression of his tail-bone.

Viggo breathes deeply against the sheets, and pushes back against Dom's touch. Dom bends down, licking around the top of his thumb. Viggo tastes smoky, salty ... somehow wrong, as if his skin is tainted by something unwholesome.

Dom drags his thumb lower, the contact smoothed by his own saliva. The crease of Viggo's behind is scorchingly hot, sweat damp. Dom touches the silky folds around Viggo's opening. Viggo pushes back a little, confirming.

Dom drapes his free hand over Viggo's back, supporting himself. He tongues carefully down the crease of Viggo's behind, until he's licking wetly around the tip of his thumb again. Viggo moans, one hand spreading out on the sheets next to him.

Dom slips his thumb out of the way, and stiffens the tip of his tongue, pushing into Viggo's body.

 _The Madonna has eyes of gray mirror. Viggo sees the reflection of a small bird tethered by a red string around its neck. The bird flutters in the dust, plucked back to earth every time it tries to fly away._

Dom's tongue makes obscene little slides into Viggo's body. Viggo feels the tickle-trace of salvia trickling on the underside of his balls.

"Dom," he breathes, letting his knees slide further apart, opening his thighs.

Dom's tongue drags out of Viggo's body.

Dom kneels up again, pulling at the fly of his jeans. He shoves them down around his hips and grips his erection in his fist. He leans in, working the head of his cock up and down in the wet cleft between Viggo's buttocks. He pushes gently, fitting the tip of his glans into the almost-yield of Viggo's anus.

Viggo gathers a fistful of sheet, white-knuckled.

Dom pushes forwards from his hips, still holding himself steady. Viggo's body resists, and then abruptly surrenders. Dom slides slowly into more than heat, more than softness.

 _He will obey me, the queen of the sea says, in the voice of the stones tumbling under the surf. I give and I take away ... but he must_

Dom presses all the way in, letting go of himself as his shaft disappears slowly inside Viggo's body. Viggo's breath stutters as he forces himself to accept the stretch and burn and weight of Dom's cock. Dom pulls back, and the slide out is every bit as annihilating as the push in. The moment of pause, the balance, is barely enough time for Viggo to fill his lungs before Dom thrusts forwards again and the pleasure is percussive enough to drive Viggo's breath out in a raw grunt.

 _obey me._

Viggo nests his forehead against his own forearm, pressing his face into the folds of the sheet under him. He wills his body open and easy, letting Dom work hard and deep and steady. Dom's energy surges in even waves, tingling in the tips of Viggo's fingers, washing heat into the pit of Viggo's stomach. Dom's strong; there's a clarity to him, a cleanness, a brightness that Viggo doesn't see very often these days.

 _Hope._

Viggo focuses on his own breathing, trying to ignore the sexy little push and grunt of Dom's exhalations. Viggo's body jitters, the threat of orgasm tickling up the insides of his thighs, humming in his balls.

"Oh God, I'm gonna come," Dom says shakily.

Viggo clenches his fists, resisting the sweet-sharp stab of sensation the words push through him. Viggo's cock pulses angrily, every molecule of air a keen kiss against his taut skin. Viggo closes his eyes, deliberately dragging the energy gathering in his groin upwards, into the pit of his stomach, into his chest.

Dom gasps and shudders, and Viggo feels the red ripples of energy pouring through them both. Viggo holds on, digging his fingers into the bedding and squeezing his eyes shut, letting Dom wash through him without washing him away.

Dom eases away Viggo, another liquid rush of sensation that Viggo has to resist. The sweat-wet smear of Dom's hand moving down Viggo's spine is edged with light. Viggo breathes as evenly as he can with his blood simmering in his veins.

"Sorry," Dom says softly, his hand curling around the side of Viggo's waist, stroking the slack muscles of Viggo's belly. "I sort of – can I, do you want me to … "

"It's fine," Viggo murmurs, capturing Dom's wrist before Dom can reach any lower. "I'm fine. It was great."

Viggo uncoils, twisting to face Dom, and pressing Dom down onto the mattress. Dom frowns slightly.

"But you - "

"It's fine," Viggo insists. "It's great."

He bends his head, putting his lips on Dom's. After a second Dom yields, opening his mouth under the push of Viggo's tongue, and letting his hands drift aimlessly on Viggo's skin.

Viggo keeps kissing Dom until he feels Dom's breathing turn tidal, and Dom's hands slide off his sides and fall palm-open on the sheets. Viggo pulls back onto his knees.

The rattle of a key in the downstairs door of the apartment pulls his attention away from Dom.

"Shit," Viggo whispers.

He glances at Dom one more time before getting up from the mattress. He ducks under the curtain to the other room, going to the top of the stairs.

"You were already here today," he says, as Elijah closes the door quietly.

Elijah glances up, his eyebrows lifting very slightly at the sight of Viggo – stark naked – standing over him.

"I thought I'd hang out for a while."

"You can't. I'm busy."

"You doing a spell?" Elijah asks, coming up a couple of steps.

"No. Go away."

"You've got someone here, don't you?"

"No. Elijah, I'm warning you, _fuck off_."

Elijah huffs, pressing his lips together and creasing his brow.

"Yeah, fuck you," he says.

"Get gone," Viggo insists.

"Yeah well, don't think I'm gonna bother coming back," Elijah says, slouching back down the few steps he's climbed. "You can fucking choke on your own spew from now on."

He pulls the door open, throwing one last look up at Viggo.

"Have a good day, d'accord?" Viggo says, as Elijah bangs the door shut after him.

Viggo waits long enough to be sure Elijah's not coming back to have the last word, then he turns and starts scrabbling through the piles of discarded clothes and art materials and old newspapers that covers the broken down couch in the corner. He comes up with a phone after only a few minutes searching.

Viggo dials and tucks the handset between his chin and shoulder while he waits for someone to answer. He goes to the doorway of the bedroom and scoops the curtain out of the way. Dom is still sleeping, fully dressed except for his jeans still open and crumpled around his hips.

"Jude," Viggo says into the phone. "Yeah. I think I might have something, a solution to your problem. I'll drop by later, okay? Sure. Bye."

Viggo hangs up and tosses the phone aside into another heap of stuff on the floor. He wipes the heel of his hand across his nose and mouth, and then sweeps his hair back off his face.

There's a swath of purple and gold brocade draped over a high wide rectangular canvas leaning against one wall of the bedroom. Viggo pulls the fabric down, swirling clouds of dust into the sun-shadowed gloom. The canvas is creamy white, primed and stretched and perfect.

Viggo goes to the mattress and hunkers down next to Dom, brushing a few strands of dark blond hair off Dom's forehead.

"Dom," Viggo says gently.

Dom stirs, stretches, frowning and then smiling as he comes up out of the deep. He turns his head, nuzzling against the roughened tips of Viggo's fingers.

"Hey," Dom says huskily.

"Dom. There's something I want you to do for me."

"Let you fuck me?" Dom says, his smile going lopsided. "Yeah. I go for that, too."

Viggo shakes his head.

"I don't. No. I want you to let me paint you."

Dom squinches his eyes up, and tilts his head on the pillow.

"What? You mean, like, this?" he asks, trailing his thumb down the ghost marks of red and black on Viggo's skin.

Viggo shakes his head again.

"No. Like that," he says, tipping his chin to indicate the expanse of blank canvas behind him.

"Are you serious?" Dom laughs.

"Deadly," Viggo says, blinking heavily.

Dom stares at him, brows furrowed but mouth curled. After a moment he shrugs, the fabric of his tee shirt whispering against the sheets.

"Okay. A'right. Where's the harm in it, yeah?"

"Yeah," Viggo says.

He turns away, pressing up onto his feet, his shoulders pushing back until the shadow between his shoulder blades looks almost black.


	3. Chapter 3

The house on Esplanade has a wrought-iron railing at the front, the curlicues blurred and thickened by decades' accumulation of gummy white paint over deforming rust.

The gates are missing; Elijah turns off the street and walks through the open gap, up the cracked paving slabs to the big colonnaded porch. The white-painted door with its smudgy glass sidelights is shut. Elijah reaches for the patchily polished brass doorknob, but then changes his mind. He fiddles with his wristwatch, setting the timer for one hour. He presses the button to start the clock, and then turns the doorknob and goes in.

The hallway is wide and dim, sunlight filtering through the dirt on the glass above the front door. Elijah heels his sneakers off, and wriggles his bare toes against the slightly gritty white and gray floor tiles.

He walks through to the back of the house, pulling his tee shirt off over his head as he goes. There's a pale green painted chair standing at the entry to the kitchen. Elijah throws his tee shirt there, and pauses long enough to shed his jeans and his boxer shorts too.

He walks naked through the kitchen, past the silent empty sinks and scrubbed tables and almost empty shelves. The backdoor stands ajar. Elijah pushes it open all the way, the hinges creaking a little under the sagging weight of wood and glass.

The garden is quite small, surrounded by high brick walls on all sides. The back porch is hung with a half-wild tangle of honeysuckle; the rest of the garden is a lush wilderness, a few almost feral rose bushes and a stand of orange daylilies fighting a losing battle against the ranker growth of weeds and ivy. The sunlight slants down through the leaves a towering tree on the other side of the wall, marking Elijah's skin with dapples of pale and bright.

Elijah steps down from the back porch. There's a dusty little trail worn in the scrubby grass; Elijah walks towards the far corner of the garden. The air is afternoon warm, with just a hint of a breeze stirring. The kiss of the air on his skin makes Elijah smile lazily.

There's a half-falling festoon of honeysuckle and ivy hanging over the slightly slumping frame of a wooden arbor. Inside, in the green-gold shade, is an ash-wood couch with a thin canvas mattress and several white cotton cushions. Ian, dressed in white linen pants and a very washed out pale blue chambray shirt, lies barefoot on the couch, with a paperback book in his hand.

"Pretty child," he says, looking up from the page when Elijah steps from the light and warmth outside, into the silky shade of the arbor.

Elijah hesitates where he is, tangling his fingers into the web of leaves and stems that covers the wooden lattice.

Ian folds down the corner of his page, and turns the book slightly to see how much is left to read. Then he sets the book down on the ground under the couch.

"Come here," he says, extending one big hand in invitation.

Elijah's chest – narrow and smooth and paper white in the gloom – rises sharply. He steps forwards, his hand dragging free from the greenery, bits of broken leaf and petal falling free from under his fingers. He steps to the side of the couch, and stands looking down at Ian, his left hand thumbing a smudge of leaf-green onto his own hipbone.

"Such eyes," Ian says, his voice low and rumbling. "Such eyes."

Elijah's breathing slowly, but deeply enough to bring his ribs pressing under his skin with each inhalation. His eyes – already wide – grow even rounder at Ian's sly smile.

"Wild thing," Ian murmurs, laying his hand down on Elijah's left hip.

Ian's fingers are long enough to cover from the crest of Elijah's hipbone to almost the small of his back. Elijah shivers, strongly enough for it wrack visibly through his body.

"It's different here, isn't it?" Ian says, pressing his thumb downwards in the tendon-valley of Elijah's groin.

Elijah's cock, hanging soft between his thighs, stirs a little.

"It's different with me, isn't it?" Ian says, and Elijah drags his own gaze up from the intersection of his own smooth skin and Ian's papery thumbprint.

Elijah nods, swallows dryly.

"Tell me," Ian says, his thumb dragging down to the silky crease between Elijah's thigh and his balls. "Tell me how it's different."

Elijah presses his lips together; his cheeks flush pinkly. Ian smiles breathily, and takes hold of Elijah's left wrist.

"Magic has power over reality," Ian says. "But when magic is powerless – then reality has power over magic. Tell me how it makes you feel, coming here. Being with me."

Elijah's lips part, his breath an audible gasp.

"Like – you make me feel like – a whore."

"Yes," Ian breathes, releasing his grip. "Yes, pretty thing. That's exactly what it's like. That's exactly it."

Ian sits up, and turns on the couch so that Elijah is caught in the space between Ian's spread thighs.

"Imagine," Ian says, and his fingertips slide white-bright down Elijah's arms, down Elijah's sides, "imagine if this was all you had. If you went with men for money … even men you didn't want."

Elijah shivers again, his eyes fluttering almost closed. He steadies, and opens his eyes.

"I want you," he says.

"Do you? I'm not young; I'm not beautiful. I'm not – agreeable," Ian says.

His hand retraces its earlier path, down the curving line of Elijah's inguinal tendon, into the crease of his groin. This time, Elijah's cock pulses hard enough to make the pinking head jerk upwards a little.

"Why do you want me?" Ian insists softly.

Elijah's flush deepens, and his clenches his hands into fists at his sides.

"I – I just – please," he says shakily.

"Beautiful child," Ian breaths, splaying his free hand on Elijah's back and drawing him closer. "Beautiful, ignorant child."

Elijah scowls, exhaling harshly, but he doesn't resist when Ian pulls him in and opens his lips against Elijah's chest.

 _ **Fic-A-Thon fic: Mardi Gras prequel, end of Chapter 3 (EW/IM NC-17)**_

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Elijah lets his shoulders drop back, his spine arching under Ian's hands. Elijah tilts his face down, pressing his mouth into the cool silver strands of Ian's hair. Ian's mouth is hot and petal-fragile on Elijah's skin.

Elijah gasps and then moans softly when Ian's mouth plucks at his left nipple, little darts of sensation jabbing into his chest, into his belly. Elijah threads his fingers through the thick satin waves of Ian's hair.

Ian lifts his face a little, staring at Elijah. Elijah blushes again; he tries to pull away a little, but Ian's hands press against his back, restraining him, steadying him.

"Tell me, child," Ian says, his eyelids heavy over sleet blue eyes. "Tell me why you want me."

Elijah looks down, looks away. His fingers slide from Ian's hair, around the bold curve of Ian's left ear, down the sinewy length of Ian's neck.

"You – you want me – even without - "

Elijah flashes a glance at Ian, deep blue under black eyelashes.

" – without the magic," Ian finishes. "But ... a great many people want you, pretty fool."

"But I don't want them," Elijah says loftily.

Ian leans back a little, opening up enough space between them for him to run his hand gently down the center of Elijah's breastbone, to his navel.

"Ah," Ian says. "I see. Of course. Your gift is to make anyone you desire, desire _you_. But your little trinket power doesn't work on Rex. You couldn't _make_ me want you, even if you tried."

Ian's fingertips circle Elijah's navel, and then move whisper-softly down again.

"Is that the allure? That you have no power over me? That my desire can't be compelled?"

"Yes," Elijah whispers.

"Liar," Ian smiles. "But a good liar. Maybe so good you've got yourself convinced."

Elijah lets his eyes shutter closed, his mouth curl into a smile. His eyes snap open again. He looks away, sidelong, smirking.

"I want you because ... "

Ian's fingertips comb into Elijah's pubic hair, tug just enough to shift some of the heat and weight collecting low in Elijah's groin. Ian's grinning, amusement growing between them, both of them vivid and glittery with self-satisfaction.

" ... you're fucking huge," Elijah laughs.

Ian laughs back at him, tugging Elijah hard enough to bring him reeling forwards, stumbling over Ian's feet and spilling into Ian's lap.

"Vicious, delicious creature," Ian chuckles, as Elijah lets himself sprawl in Ian's arms.

Elijah arches, rubbing himself greedily against the softness of Ian's clothing. He throws his head back, lips parted in a wide grin. Ian dips his head, pushing his tongue into Elijah's open mouth. Elijah clasps his arms around Ian's neck, and makes soft little sounds into Ian's kiss.

"Oh," Elijah breathes, closing his eyes and rubbing his face in the collar of Ian's shirt when Ian spills him sideways onto the couch.

"Vixen," Ian laughs, pushing Elijah down onto his stomach and leaning over him.

Elijah squirms, spreading his legs and rubbing himself shamelessly against the padding under him. Ian puts one hand on Elijah's behind, his fingers splayed out right across the small tight curve of Elijah's right buttock. Ian leans in, brushing the tip of his nose into the little hollow at the base of Elijah's spine, and inhaling the powdery warmth of Elijah's skin.

Elijah tenses, the brush of Ian's breath like a lick of flame.

Ian shifts, crawling onto the couch, curving over Elijah.

"Be still," Ian says, though the only movement Elijah's making is the little stutter slip of his hips.

Ian's knuckles graze against Elijah's behind. There's a low rasp of zipper, and the slight chime of a belt buckle. Elijah feels the cool glance of metal in the small of his back, and then the brush of cloth – cotton, silk – then skin, finer and softer than silk.

Elijah turns his face to one side, pillowing his cheek on the back of his hand. There's a leafy tendril of something growing down the shaded wall, pale and green and very perfect. Elijah rolls his hips, playing with the press of his own weight and the push of his hard cock against his own belly.

Ian plants one hand on the couch next to Elijah's face. Elijah's eyes flicker wider. The thick tendons on the inside of Ian's wrist flex and shift against his shirt cuff.

Elijah feels the nudge of something broad and smooth and scorching against the back of his right thigh. He opens his mouth, draws a deep breath down into his lungs.

Each upward shift of Elijah's hips intensifies the pressure of Ian's cock rubbing insistently between the cheeks of his behind; each downward movement sends a thick hot shock of pleasure into the head of his own cock.

Ian grunts, an absent absorbed sound. Elijah concentrates very hard on the slow if shaky rise and fall of his own breath, his own hips. Ian presses harder, the head of his cock slipping a little against the oily heat of Elijah's opening. Elijah's done his level best to prepare his body for this, but it's going to be, as it always is

oh

hard

Ian sniffs, prodding at Elijah's hole with the blunt tip of his thumb and the blunter tip of his cock. Elijah deliberately presses his breath out of his lungs, out, out, until his chest is

empty

then

aching

then

burning

then

" _Ah_ ," Ian sighs, as if something's achieved, when really Elijah's body is protesting in little fluttering spasms against the impossibility of fitting Ian's cock into Elijah's ass.

Elijah sucks down another breath, holds it, lets it go.

"Good, good," Ian says, and there is some shift in quality of pressure at Elijah's hole – less general, more particular, more intimate.

Elijah growls, and spreads his legs even further. The pressure turns to pain, but before Elijah even has a chance to gasp, something inside yields

nothing as trite as the muscles of his ass, something _deep_ inside

and Ian's sliding slowly, agonizingly, deliciously deeper.

Elijah's a bug on a pin, squirming around the precious piercing, and it's

so

fucking

 _rich_.

Elijah gasps, half cries out, clenching fistfuls of pillows and gritting his teeth. Ian's crooning, low breathy sounds that are about equal parts reassurance and approbation. Elijah drops his head, rounds his shoulders, stretches his legs out until his toes are quivering with tension.

Ian pushes in further, a red-hot satin-smooth slide.

Elijah howls, every trembling muscle shattering into utter acceptance.

"Yes, yes," Ian murmurs, his big hand cupping the curve of Elijah's right shoulder. "Pretty child ... pretty child."

"Yes," Elijah breathes, "yes."

Ian's weight comes to rest on Elijah's back. Elijah hardly has room to breathe.

Ian lifts away again, very slowly, and the exquisite slide of his cock in Elijah's ass drags another breathy sound from Elijah. Ian's hand leans harder on Elijah's shoulder, pinning him down as Ian pulls the shaft of his cock from Elijah's clinging flesh.

There's a moment of aching balance, Elijah writhing a little in impatience, and then Ian pushes down again.

" _Oh._ Yes," Elijah grinds.

For long, honey-slow moments all Elijah can do is hold on, let it happen, let himself tumble weightless in the heat and pressure and so fucking good friction. The first time he gathers himself enough to push back to meet Ian's thrust, the shock of the sensation is enough to make him snap his breath in half.

Ian rumbles, thunder roll against Elijah's back. Elijah bites the air, clenches his fists, shoves back harder.

"Ah," Ian says again.

His skin is cool, his hands dry and steady and strong on Elijah's body. Elijah's on fire, sweat tracing hot down his spine and around the crease of his behind. His blood sears under his skin, his breath parches his lips.

"Nn ... no," he falters, almost deafened by the pounding of his pulse in his ears and eyes and lips.

Ian's weight pulls and pushes and presses, a slow steady pace that churns Elijah's insides into a fever frenzy.

Elijah can sense the shift in Ian, the growing focus. There's no change of rhythm or force, no untoward hurry in Ian's breathing, no growing sharpness in his murmured approval. But Elijah can tell, can feel the thing gathering close ...

Elijah's vision washes dark, the sun-shadows black and blue, the fresh leaf glowing blood-red against the golden brickwork and

Ian sighs deeply

Elijah's guts quiver, burn

Elijah squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his teeth, digs his fingernails into his palms.

 _Hold on, hold on, hold on._

Pleasure lurches and shimmers low down in Elijah's groin. He hisses his breath out between his teeth.

 _Don't come. Don't - Don't_.

There's a tiny, pure white thread of control that Elijah can

just

catch ... and cling to ... and climb

up

out of the firestorm.

 _Breathe. Breathe._

For what feels like a long time, Elijah lies still, letting the heat seep away from him.

Elijah's eyes flutter open. Ian is saying something, deep soft-edged words that Elijah has to struggle to bring into focus.

" ... perfect instincts," Ian says. "Don't ever doubt them, beautiful boy."

Ian pulls back, pulls out, a big shuddering shock of pleasure that almost overbalances Elijah's control. Elijah buries his face in the pillows, his body shaking, his heart and breath stunned, while his skin cools and his ass aches emptily.

Ian moves away, whisper of clothing, ring of his loose belt buckle. Elijah curls slowly in on himself, and then spills over onto his back.

Ian's looking down at him, eyes narrowed, lips slightly curved.

"Monster," he says fondly. "I should be charging _you_ for that."

Elijah grins, blows upwards to lift a sweaty lock of dark hair off his forehead.

Ian extracts a hundred dollar bank bill from between the pages of his book and passes it to Elijah, who crumples it a little in his damp palm and draws the corners down the slick center of his chest. Elijah's watch beeps softly, marking the elapsed hour. Elijah drags himself into a sit, folding forwards over his sprawled legs.

"Elijah," Ian says, his tone oddly serious.

Elijah looks up.

"There's – there's more than one kind of magic, you know," Ian says. "There's more than - _New Orleans_ magic. Be patient."

Elijah frowns, looking down at the money in his hand.

"I've got to go," he says after a moment.

"Yes," Ian says. "You're in the way now, and over your time. I'm not paying per hour or part thereof, you know. Do go away."

Elijah smiles, and scrambles off the couch, stumbling a little on legs still shaking from abuse. He clutches at Ian, grins, and pushes away.

"You want me to come by again?"

"I expect," Ian shrugs, smoothing and plumping the couch pillows with one hand before settling down again, his shirt tails hanging over his still unfastened pants.

Elijah waits, standing naked and smiling and still a little hard, until Ian condescends to look at him.

"Sunday," Ian smirks. "Come back on Sunday, around three. I do so enjoy the combination of church bells and sodomy."

"Okay, I will," Elijah laughs. "Goodbye."

"Good day, Elijah," Ian says, his attention already moving back to the book in his hand.

Elijah steps back out of the bower into the sunlight. The grass is warm underfoot, the wood of the porch silky smooth. The house is a plunge into cool and gloom. Elijah tucks his payment into the pocket of his jeans before dressing again, wandering through the sitting room and then kicking his sneakers back on in the front hall. He opens the front door, squinting into the hard brightness of the street. When he steps out, he pulls the door closed behind him.


	4. Arts and Crafts

La Siren is probably – no. La Siren is the best restaurant in New Orleans. Not the most expensive, not the most fashionable, not the most famous. Just – the best.

Dom doesn't yet know New Orleans well enough to appreciate the distinction. Still, there's significance in the gimcrack finery of the dining room – cracked and fly-spotted mirrors, velvet drapes worn shiny on their folds, bits of fresh greenery and flickering tea lights in old jelly jars on the tables. The kitchen is hot and cluttered, as restaurant kitchens always are, but there's an unusual serenity to the chaos – the mismatched plates clink together softly, instructions are given and requests are made in gentle voices, and cooks and servers exchange quick smiles along with heaped plates.

Miranda looks Dom up and down, while he tries and fails not to return her scrutiny.

Miranda's hair is a smooth red-gold spill over her shoulder. She looks like she's not wearing makeup, but her eyes have the kind of presence and her skin has the kind of perfection that means it's just very well applied. Her dress – black, soft enough to skim her curves and silky enough to cling in a few choice spots – must have cost a fortune the first time around, maybe thirty years ago. This time, she might have picked it for almost nothing in a thrift store, or she might have paid another fortune for it, in a boutique catering to jaded models and actresses in search of instant individuality.

"Can you cook?" Miranda asks Dom.

"No."

"Wait tables?"

"I ... don't think so," Dom winces.

"Wash dishes?"

"I – could learn."

"You're hired," Miranda sighs.

Dom grins until Miranda's expression warms in response.

"Do try to stay out of trouble," she says, brushing at the shoulder of Dom's tee shirt and tweaking his sleeve.

 

Viggo parts his lips, the tip of his tongue curling out from between chapped lips. He turns his thumb, grinding a pale curve in the thick glistening smears of red and purple paint on the canvas. He presses harder, feeling the weave of the cloth through the slip-slide paint.

Viggo pulls back, tipping his head to one side as he considers his work. He smears his thumb down the hollowed line of his right cheek, leaving a purple-red gash of color on his dark skin.

 _"Turn ... of the turning,_ " he whispers.

The canvas writhes with color, black and purple swirling from each corner into the center. Gouts of bright red underlie the pattern, and push through to the surface where Viggo has wiped the later layers of color away, or gouged them through with his fingernails.

"Can I look?" Dom asks languidly.

Viggo steps away from the painting, wiping both hands on the already paint-spattered and smudged skin of his bare chest.

"No, not until it's finished," he says.

He picks his way around the clutter on the floor, moving to where Dom's lying naked on the mattress. Viggo hunkers down, taking hold of Dom's ankle.

"How do you feel?" Viggo asks.

Dom blinks, smiles slowly.

"Sleepy. I dunno why – all I'm doin' is lyin' here."

"Modeling's hard work," Viggo says, watching with interest as he twists his grip around the heavy bones of Dom's ankle. "It ... takes it out of you."

Dom wiggles his toes, pushes his foot more firmly into Viggo's grasp.

"So, when will it be finished?" Dom asks.

Viggo flicks a narrow-eyed glance at Dom, considering.

"A while," he says at last. "You're ... hard to get."

"Yeah?" Dom smiles, straightening his leg so that Viggo's hand perforce slides up the back of his calf. "I'm a complicated subject, then?"

Viggo lets his eyes slip closed. He smiles, a tight secret smile. Dom's expression flickers into a frown.

"Viggo?"

"Be quiet," Viggo breathes.

He opens his eyes, leans over Dom.

"Be quiet. Save your strength."

Dom clutches at him, pulls him down even closer.

"Shh," Viggo whispers. "Shh."

Dom's eyes close. Viggo bends right down, and places a soft kiss on each quivering eyelid. Dom sighs, and softens, and slips into sleep.

 

"Dom. Are you listening?" Miranda says sharply.

Dom blinks himself back into focus.

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely," Dom says, glancing around the kitchen of La Siren as if he can't quite remember how he got here.

"Dom, are you okay?" Miranda asks more gently.

"Yeah, of course."

"You're eating, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"I mean, you're eating _here_? You're eating our food?"

"Yeah."

Miranda nods dubiously.

"Alright. Just ... be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, no more broken plates," Dom smiles. "I promise."

Miranda shakes her head slightly, and turns away.

 

"We have a deal, don't we?" Viggo whispers at Dom's ear.

"I – I don't ... "

"We have a deal," Viggo says more emphatically. "I keep my end of the bargain, and you keep yours."

"The painting ... " Dom frowns.

"The painting."

 

Dom hands the slightly creased free-pass postcard to the bouncer at the front door of Satine's. The bouncer glances at it, glances at Dom, then tips his head to gesture Dom across the threshold.

"Thanks," Dom says quietly, hunching his shoulders and digging both hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

He goes upstairs. It's still pretty early; the hallways are almost empty. There's a couple, tangled together, laughing, talking in low voices. A tall man in a pale linen suit, and a smaller youth wearing –

Elijah pulls away Jude, grinning. They both glance in Dom's direction.

Dom stops. Dom's heart stops.

"Elijah."

"Hey, hi," Elijah says, leaning in against Jude again. "Don."

Dom looks at Jude. Jude smiles slightly, but his eyes are very steady.

"I - " Dom says. "I - "

"I'm going to the bar," Jude announces, disentangling Elijah's hands from his pants pockets.

"I'll be right there," Elijah says.

Jude nods, nods again at Dom, and walks away.

"So, Don, how you doing?" Elijah says, rocking his weight on one foot and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his black pvc jeans.

" _Dom,_ " Dom says carefully. "My name's _Dom_."

Elijah's glassine smile gives way to a soft wince.

"Shit. Sorry. _Dom_."

Dom nods.

"You okay?" Elijah asks, frowning slightly.

"I'm fine," Dom says.

He glances in the direction Jude took.

"You better go after your friend. Don't keep him waiting."

"He's not a friend," Elijah says abruptly. "He's a job."

Dom looks at Elijah.

"I'm working," Elijah says, lifting his chin slightly.

Dom screws his hand down deeper into his right hip pocket, frowning hard.

"Look, I'm sorry if you're - "

"I have money," Dom says.

"What?"

"I have money," Dom says again.

"It's a hundred bucks," Elijah says. "A hundred bucks, whatever you want, sixty minutes or less."

"I have a hundred," Dom says.

And it's true, though he can't quite remember where the dirty and worn note came from, how it's clenched in his fist now, soft and stinking. Elijah looks at the money doubtfully.

"Are you - "

"Please," Dom says very softly. "Elijah. Please."

Elijah bites at the side of his bottom lip. The flesh pulls pale between his teeth, then flushes darkly when he lets it go.

"Shit. Okay. Look – wait for me at the house. Do you remember where it is?"

"Yeah. On the corner of Bourbon Street and Saint Louis Street."

"Okay. Wait for me. I won't be very long."

"An hour," Dom says.

Elijah smiles, a very slight but utterly unguarded curl of his lips.

"Fifty two minutes," he corrects. "Clock's running."

There's a sort of beat, where they just stare at each other, and then Elijah crinkles up the corners of his eyes and laughs. He turns away, throws one last glance at Dom over his shoulder, and walks off.

Dom drops onto the nearest couch. His heart thumps messily in his chest, and he can feel his skin melting against his clothes. He opens his fist, scowling at the hundred dollar bank note pressed in his palm. There's a smear of purple paint on one corner.

 

Dom sits in the dark at the top of the stairs, waiting for Elijah to come home. The sky's glowing violet-gold, the street lights muddying the night. Dom can hear music, and voices, and occasionally the lilt of a police siren. The plaster wall against his shoulder is cool, and faintly damp.

The street gate creaks when it's opened. Dom lifts his head, listening intently. There's nothing more to hear inside the house, but Dom can feel Elijah coming closer.

Elijah appears at the bottom of the stairs. His face is a pale oval in the gloom, his eyes dark smudges. Dom can't make out his expression.

"Hi," Elijah says softly.

Dom stands, pushing through the painful stiffness of his limbs, sliding upwards against the wall.

"Hi."

Elijah starts up the stairs. Dom presses himself back against the wall; Elijah hesitates on the step below him, and then passes without touching him.

"Come in," Elijah says, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open.

Dom steps across the threshold, and closes the door carefully behind him.

Elijah walks through to the bedroom, both hands ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. He turns to face Dom.

"So, what would you like to do?" Elijah asks.

"What?"

Elijah smiles.

"Put the money on the mantle, and tell me what you'd like to do? You want me to blow you? You wanna fuck me?"

Dom stumbles to the fireplace, sets the bunched up hundred dollar bank note on the mantelpiece. The paper unfurls slightly, released from the damp heat of his hand.

Dom looks at Elijah. Elijah dips his chin, looking back at Dom from under his eyelashes.

"Whatever you want," he murmurs, pulling the neck of his white tee shirt down to expose the milk white skin at the base of his throat.

Dom takes a step towards him, another step. Elijah lets his hand drop to his side, and presses his shoulders back a little. He has to tilt his head back to look Dom in the face.

"Elijah," Dom says, his voice too thick and unwieldy in his throat.

Dom leans in, taking Elijah's chin in his hand. Elijah lets his eyelids flutter down heavily, then sweep back up.

Dom bends his head, putting his lips against the sticky sweet heat of Elijah's mouth. For an instant Elijah remains still, but then he lifts one hand and sets it lightly on Dom's arm. Dom pushes his tongue into Elijah's mouth. Elijah's tongue stirs, sliding slowly against Dom's.

Elijah flexes his fingers on Dom's arm, tightening his hold slightly.

Dom pulls back, pulls away from Elijah.

"No," Dom says.

Elijah shakes his head.

"What's wrong?"

"This isn't what I want," Dom says shakily.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't want – I want you to _want me_ ," Dom scowls.

"This is – I want you," Elijah says. "Believe me, I do."

"That's why it's a hundred dollars, I suppose," Dom says. "Because you want me."

"It's a hundred bucks because I have to eat and put a roof over my head just like everybody else," Elijah protests. "Come on, a hundred bucks isn't that bad. I could tell you it was a thousand, or a hundred thousand, and you'd pay it, wouldn't you? You'd get it somehow, and you'd pay it to fuck me."

Dom flinches.

"Yeah, I want you," Elijah goes on. "I want you, because if I didn't, you wouldn't look twice at me. But I do want you; I think you're fucking hot. And believe me, if I wanted, I could make you eat your fucking heart in front of me."

"Elijah - "

"No. Fuck you, Dom. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. We had a good time, and I let you go. I'm sorry it worked out like this, but I'm telling you – I'm done with you. You can walk out of here anytime you like."

"Fine. I will," Dom grits.

He turns on his heel, stalking back into the sitting room.

"You forgot your money," Elijah snaps.

"Keep it," Dom counters. "You want it worse than I do."

Dom slams out of the door hard enough to rattle the glass panels in their frames.

Elijah clenches his fists and curls his lip.

"Fuck you," he sneers. "Just – fuck you."


End file.
